


Better Than Fireworks

by vissy



Category: Lord of the Rings (Novel)
Genre: Frodo's New Year Mathoms, Frodo/Sam - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-01
Updated: 2004-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vissy/pseuds/vissy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soup is spilt. Sam won’t shut up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Frodo’s New Year Mathoms 2004, for Benevola.

It was a delicious smell that lured Sam to the kitchen at Bag End - brisket and bay leaves, onion and peppercorns - but it was a muffled sob that made him drop his load of firewood and come running to Frodo’s side. His master looked to be in strife all right, crouching awkwardly over the wash basin while he worked the pump with one elbow. Sam took one look at Frodo’s hands and cringed in sympathy. “What have you done to yourself, Mr Frodo?” he said, tucking an arm about Frodo’s waist and taking the pump handle.

Frodo looked up with a relieved expression, and Sam could see his master was ashen with hurt. “Oh Sam, I managed to burn them both hauling that wretched pot off the boil.” They both turned and scowled at the pot in question, simmering quietly now on the low heat. Then they returned their attention to Frodo’s poor hands, shaking and red raw beneath a now steady stream of water from the pump.

“You silly duffer,” Sam said, adding almost as an afterthought, “Begging your pardon, sir.”

“It hurts.” Frodo slumped against him, and Sam tucked him in close, resisting the urge to press a kiss against the pale, damp brow.

“Smells good, though,” Sam said, and was rewarded with a gurgling laugh.

“And some people say I can’t cook.”

Sam humphed. “Well, sir, you’re not so bad when you pay some mind to what you’re doing. But if I turn around now, how many books will I spot on the table, eh? Five? Six? And not a one of them’ll have any recipes, I wager.”

“Don’t tease, Sam. You know I like to keep my eyes busy while I’m chopping the vegetables.”

“Ay, and that’s how you almost lost a finger last week. And here you are now, trying to make broiled hobbit. There’s a reason Mr Bilbo always said no books in the kitchen.”

“But Bilbo’s not here anymore, is he?” The words were bitter but Frodo’s tone seemed more sad than anything. It had been a few months now since Mr Bilbo’s departure, and Frodo was facing his first Yule alone. No wonder the books were multiplying. His poor master probably wanted all the distraction he could find to stop his heart from hankering after that path to the east. Sam just wished he would leave the distractions out of the kitchen before he hurt himself even worse.

“Duffer,” Sam whispered, giving Frodo a gentle squeeze. “Hold on a tick while I get a bowl for these hands of yours.” Sam waited until Frodo had steadied himself before releasing his hold. He found a goodly sized mixing bowl and tucked it beneath Frodo’s hands before taking the pump handle again. “Here, we’ll fill this up with water and then sit you down at the table and you can pop them in for a nice soak, all right?”

Frodo nodded, leaning into Sam once more as they watched water stream across his hands and fill the bowl. “I’m glad you came along when you did, Sam. I was in a spot of bother.”

“My timing’s not bad, is it? I’ve been down the Hill chopping wood all morning, and I might just as easily have missed you. ‘Course, if I’d come a few minutes earlier I could’ve shifted that pot for you.”

“And if I’d remembered to put some mitts on when I noticed the pot boiling over, I might have saved myself some pain.”

Sam was thinking on similar lines, and with a good deal more exasperation than he heard in Frodo’s voice, but he didn’t say so. “Bowl’s full enough now, sir. Get your paws in, that’s right. Now one, two, three, and over to the table.” They shuffled together across the kitchen tiles, and Frodo took a seat while Sam held the bowl in one hand and tried to clear a spot to set it down with the other. As he’d suspected, the table was just as littered with books as vegetable leavings. He closed a collection of elvish poetry and moved it to one side, placing the bowl down gently in its place. “How’s that, eh? Bit more comfortable?” Frodo nodded slowly, his eyes downcast. Sam couldn’t help himself anymore and brushed a gentle hand over the dark curls, and when Frodo looked up Sam could see a line etched high across each cheek. “There now, sir. Not much damage done.” Frodo’s eyes fell once more, and when Sam followed them he saw that Frodo’s shirt and weskit were soaked with beef stock. Nor had his breeches escaped harm, and Sam caught glimpses of onion trapped in the hair on Frodo’s feet. “Oh now, sir, what’s this? I hope you haven’t managed to poach half your skin!”

“I don’t think it’s too bad, Sam.”

Sam sighed. “Maybe not, but it doesn’t look too good either.” Frodo was starting to look truly miserable now, and Sam’s hand tightened briefly in his hair before he knelt down and started unbuttoning Frodo’s weskit. He smiled up into Frodo’s wan face. “Waste of good soup, if you ask me,” he said, hoping Frodo wouldn’t notice how his fingers shook.

“It’s my new variation on Bilbo’s favourite recipe,” Frodo said, wincing as Sam pulled the sodden material of his shirt away from his skin. “The secret ingredient is hobbit.”

Sam shook his head as he examined Frodo’s bare belly. There were some angry looking blotches, but the clothes had soaked up the worst of the heat. “Doesn’t sound exactly appetising,” he lied. “Here, lift your hands out a moment and I’ll get this lot off you. Good thing you’ve no braces on today. One less tangle. Here, let me get those buttons at your wrists. Careful does it now.” Frodo ducked and squirmed out of his wet garments, and Sam wondered if his own face had turned as scarlet as his master’s. “Right then. Hands back in the water.” He reached for Frodo’s breeches and unfastened the flies, trying very hard not to think of anything at all as he felt Frodo’s belly quiver against his knuckles. “All right, up now, just a little. These smalls’d better come off too.” Sam closed his eyes against the sight of Frodo’s wriggling hips and didn’t open them again until he had dragged the clothing down around his ankles. He wiped the mess off Frodo’s feet - the thick fur seemed to have spared them from any scalding - tossed the clothes to one side, then took a deep breath before sparing a glance at the two bare thighs before him, between which had been tucked all the vitals. Sam bit his lip and decided that if Frodo could squeeze everything in that tight, then he probably wasn’t burnt too badly. There were some more red marks streaking down one thigh like the ones on his belly, but when Sam held his hands just above them, he was relieved to find they weren’t too hot. He watched Frodo’s muscles twitch and flex like they wanted to reach up and touch Sam’s fingers.

“Sam.”

Sam’s breath stuttered as he looked up. He caught a glimpse of Frodo’s tongue as it swiped over his top lip, and then that broken line of teeth came out and sank into the bottom. Sam spared a moment to wish it was his own mouth feeling Frodo’s bite, then stood up abruptly and dropped his coat around Frodo’s shoulders. “I’d best fetch you a nightshirt before you’re covered in gooseflesh. Winter’s no time to be sitting around in your skin.”

Sam hurried down the hallway, pretending not to hear it when Frodo whispered his name again. He fetched a towel and some clean strips of linen from a cupboard, and a nightshirt from one of Frodo’s bedroom drawers. When he returned to the kitchen, he found Frodo rubbing a flushed cheek into the rough collar of his coat, and it made his belly feel queer and anxious.

Frodo looked up when he heard Sam’s step, and the coat started to fall off his shoulders, making Sam swallow hard. He placed the linens on a book and held out the towel. “Here now, give me your hands,” he said. “Gently does it. I’m just going to dab them dry and then we’ll get this clean shirt on. That’s it. Gently now.” He cradled Frodo’s poor hands, wincing at the blistered skin. The hot metal handles had bitten in hard. “All right then, let’s get you dressed, Mr Frodo. Over your head it goes. That’s good. Now tuck your hands through these sleeves. Ay, gently does it. Good, good.” Sam crooned softly, a steady monologue; he was not ready yet to hear the broken sound of his name on Frodo’s lips again.

When Frodo spoke at last, it was a comfortably practical question. “Are you going to rub a little butter into the burns?”

“Oh no, Mr Frodo. They’re far too hot, see? Butter’d just make them cook even longer. No, we’ll just wrap them in these nice cool linens and try and keep them clean.”

“All right, Sam.” Frodo sat quietly as Sam bound his hands in the fine material.

“You’ll have a nasty set of blisters. You’re not to start fidgeting with them, you hear?”

Frodo gave him a crooked smile. “I hear.”

“I mean it. I’ve seen the way you gnaw and nibble. That mouth of yours has always got to be busy with something.” Sam knew those words were a mistake as soon as he said them, as he watched Frodo’s smile turn into something else, something tremulous and a little wild. Before Frodo could say anything, Sam tucked in the last end of linen and said, “There, you’re done. How do they feel?”

Frodo stared down at his covered hands. “They’re hot.”

“Ay, I can feel them through the bandages. Regular furnace, you are. Still, why don’t we tuck you into bed?”

There was a gleam of blue beneath the lowered eyelids. “All right, Sam.”

Sam helped him up and led him carefully down the hall. “Watch out for the logs, Mr Frodo. Don’t want you to stub your toe.”

“I see them.”

Sam drew him into the bedroom and pulled back the bedcovers. The mattress was just a little too high for Frodo, and Sam took him by the waist and boosted him up before he could try and brace himself on his sore hands. Frodo’s bowed head touched Sam’s brow very gently before he wriggled back against the pillows. “You settle in while I fetch in some of that wood to build up your fire, all right, Mr Frodo?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“And don’t you get under the covers just yet. I still want to look at those other hurts.”

“All right, Sam. I’ll wait.”

“I won’t be long. Hold tight.” Sam stepped back into the hall and picked up the fallen logs. The load felt somehow heavier than before; he was a little out of breath. “Get a hold of yourself, Samwise,” he told himself. He returned to Frodo’s bedroom and knelt in front of the hearth, poking at the coals and coaxing the fire back to life. He could feel a relentless gaze prickling the back of his neck. “That’ll do, I suppose,” he said finally, examining the fire with satisfaction before turning to meet Frodo’s eyes. His master was resting on his back, his curled, bandaged hands lying beside his head on the pillow. He looked very young as he watched Sam, the bare fingertips of his left hand just touching his lips. He looked like he wanted to bite.

Sam poured some water into the wash bowl and scrubbed his hands with soap. Then he opened a drawer and found a few clean pocket-handkerchiefs, which he brought over to the bedside along with the water jug. The deep V of Frodo’s nightshirt was wide open, the drawstrings still untied. Sam dampened a handkerchief and pressed it gently against Frodo’s skin, which hitched and quivered beneath the cool cloth. He drew the shirt back further, following the path of the burns across the curve of Frodo’s belly. “All right, Mr Frodo?” he whispered, and Frodo nodded, looking close to tears. “I could stop if it hurts.”

“Don’t stop,” Frodo said, shaking his head from side to side, his chin trembling like his bottom lip might pop out into a pout any second.

Sam continued to dab the scalds with care, leaning in close to blow a tickly gust of air over them. Then he sopped the handkerchief in the jug again and pulled the nightshirt up to bare Frodo’s legs. He patted at the red patches speckled down Frodo’s right thigh, holding his knees still when they tried to rise in reaction. “All right?” he asked again. He was surprised at how steady his voice sounded.

“Don’t stop,” Frodo repeated.

Sam pursed his lips and puffed lightly over the marks, his eyes so close to Frodo’s skin that he could see the fine hairs shifting beneath his breath. Frodo’s eyes felt very heavy on him. Sam swallowed, his mouth moving wordlessly as he pushed the shirt up until it lay rumpled about Frodo’s waist and pressed the wet cloth where Frodo was burning hottest of all. “All right?” he asked once more.

And Frodo baulked, rolling to his side with a cry and presenting his back to Sam. Just like that Sam’s tender hands were emptied and his head was filled up with a queer rage at his dear master, and filled too with such helpless, foolish love, because how could he help himself, no matter how wild with anger Frodo made him?

He stared at Frodo lying there, shirt still caught about his waist and that ridiculous little bottom shaking with silent sobs and just begging for a walloping. He panted and waited and hoped for calm. It wasn’t in him to sustain these bursts of harsh feeling, not against Frodo. He waited for the tenderness to return, and it came to him soon enough, just like he knew it would.

‘Course, Mr Frodo could wreck the best of good intentions with his foolishness. “Perhaps you should check on that soup, Sam,” he heard in disbelief, and he had to clench his fists against his heaving chest, against the need to lash out.

“Your soup’s fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Sam? Is something…wrong?”

“Wrong?” Here he was, hunched in the doorway like some scoundrel condemned, everything inside him all gnarled and hot, and Mr Frodo wanted to know if something was wrong?

“You seem…a little angry.” And he turned now, the little coward, or a half turn at least. Still hiding the most honest part of him, which meant he was probably still hard as bone and too ashamed to admit it.

“Well, and what if I am? Does that please you?” Sam groped again for calm, but it was gone. “For a grown hobbit of three and thirty, you’re like a toddler sometimes. Always needing attention. Always wanting a reaction. Maybe you even burnt yourself on purpose, just to stop my heart and make me fret over you.”

“Sam!”

“If I’m angry, it’s ’cause you do such fool things. Begging your pardon.” The habitual phrase almost brought him back to himself, until it occurred to him to wonder why he should be the one begging. Maybe it was about time he did something that actually required a pardon. “Well, I can do fool things too,” he said, marching back over to the bed. He reached for Frodo’s knees, both hunched up to his chest like a babe’s, and rolled him over again. Two stubborn, bandaged hands tried to push him away, so he took Frodo by the wrists and pressed him back into the pillow. “None of that now. You want to ruin my handiwork and hurt yourself in the bargain? Just you be still now.”

“Let go of me, Sam!”

“How am I supposed to do that? Take you at your word, I would, and next thing I know you’d be watching and wanting again.” Sam kept a firm grip on Frodo’s wrists and knelt up onto the bed. “Here, shift your legs. Oi, no kicking! All I want’s a little room here. Come on then, spread them.” He shoved a knee between Frodo’s clenched thighs and eased them apart, working his body between them until he had Frodo pinned. “Ay, that’s good. Can’t wriggle your way out of this one now, can you?” He met Frodo’s furious glare with a scowl of his own, which turned into a helpless, silly grin when Frodo’s hips started shifting beneath him. “Oh, but you’re going to try, though, aren’t you? That feels nice…”

“Get off me, Sam. We are not doing this.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“This isn’t what I want!”

“Liar. There’s a lovely stiff prick here that says otherwise.”

“Sam.”

There was that broken, pleading voice again. Sam thought it might be his most favourite, most frustrating sound in the whole world. He rubbed his hands along Frodo’s forearms, where the skin felt smooth and fragile. “Going to hit me if I let go, or will you be good?”

“Sam? Will you…be good?”

That chin was wobbling again. Sam leant in close and flicked a tongue into its dimple, just like he’d been wanting to for the longest time. “Can’t make no promises, Mr Frodo.” He tried to press his mouth against Frodo’s, but Frodo turned his head away with a moan. “What’s the matter, does my breath stink? I just want a kiss.” He nuzzled the delicate edge of Frodo’s ear. “And I know that busy little mouth of yours’d like one too.”

Frodo’s head shifted uneasily between a nod and a shake, tickling Sam’s nose with curls. “A kiss makes everything real somehow,’ he said. “Maybe I prefer to dream.”

“Duffer. A kiss is a dream, and a nice one at that.” Frodo’s arms has stopped their anxious fretting, so Sam let them go and turned Frodo’s head in his hands until they were facing one another once more. Sam rubbed his nose against Frodo’s and pressed their lips together softly. “There. No harm done, see? Now open up for me, and we’ll take a taste, all right?”

“All right, Sam,” Frodo whispered, before Sam covered his mouth again. A delicious wet mess it turned into, too, as their teeth clunked together and their tongues got all muddled. Sam nibbled gently upon Frodo’s bottom lip and won himself a smile at last as Frodo pulled back a little to say, “Don’t eat me!”

“And why not?” Sam grinned. “You’re the secret ingredient, aren’t you? Now give me that lip back. I’m not done with it.” He tucked a thumb beside each corner of Frodo’s sweet mouth, coaxing him about to his liking and swallowing all the little gasps and whimpers he made. Then Frodo let out what sounded more like a yelp of pain, and Sam realised he was rubbing himself like a great oaf into the burns on his belly. He sat back on his haunches, pleased to see how disgruntled Frodo looked to lose his kiss. He ran his knuckles gently down Frodo’s face. “Ah, my dear one. Doesn’t take much to turn me sweet again, does it? To think not five ticks ago I would’ve been happy to thrash you.”

“You’re a very easy hobbit, Samwise,” Frodo said, trying to take his hand before he remembered the bandages he was trapped in.

“And you’re always so bloody difficult. Leave those hands be before I do thrash you.”

“As if you would,” Frodo said, but he put his hands back down.

“I may yet, Mr Frodo. You never know.” Sam took a hold of Frodo’s shirt and pushed it up high around his ribs. “Oh, look at this poor belly of yours. It looks like a lovely big dish of strawberries and cream. I’m going to have a lick.” He crouched down and pressed kiss after kiss against Frodo’s mottled skin. “Oh, that’s sweet, that is. Now you’re shaking like a trifle. Mmm, delicious little belly jelly. What’s so funny?”

“I was just…uh…thinking it must be time for elevenses…ah, Sam!”

Sam swirled his tongue around Frodo’s belly button. “Ay, you make me hungry, you do. My love words aren’t much good, are they? But you know it’s love, don’t you? My dear, my dearest.” A long, shuddering sigh was his only answer, and then an insistent thrust of hips. Sam laughed as Frodo’s prick tapped at his chin, clamouring for attention. “Hoi, there, you’ll get yours, little master. No need to poke me like that.” He took Frodo’s prick in hand and almost got bucked off the bed for his trouble, and no matter that he must’ve out-weighed Frodo by a half-hobbit. “Steady on then!” he laughed, but when he looked up he saw that Frodo was looking a little frantic, and not just with pleasure.

“Please…please, Sam, you don’t have to…”

“My dear, I know I don’t have to, but I want to, oh so very much.” He shook his head, refusing to let go of that hot, jumping flesh. “Can’t begin to imagine what goes on in your head sometimes, Mr Frodo. I don’t understand why you won’t just take what you want. I’d never deny you anything. I want you to have everything you like. I don’t know how to put it plainer.” He rubbed his thumb about the wet knob, watching Frodo’s anxious face. “I want to please you. I want to please you for all days. I want to feed that hungry mouth of yours - kisses and sweetmeats and whatever you like. And I want to dress your body each morning and undress it at night. And I want to take care of this,” he said, squeezing gently. “Always so stiff for me, isn’t it? I know how that feels, ’cause the stars themselves know what you do to me. Won’t you let me take care of you, Mr Frodo? Won’t you please let me?”

“But Sam, you’re so young and…”

“Oh sir, what matter? I seem to know more about how to go along in a sensible fashion than you do.” He leant across and kissed Frodo’s furrowed brow. “Don’t get yourself into such an upset. How do you like it, then? A bit rough, I’m betting. Would you prefer my hand or my mouth? Don’t have nought but spit to ease the rubbing, but there’s plenty of it in any case - you got me slavering and how.”

The furrow showed no signs of clearing, so Sam was surprised when Frodo whispered, “Your hand…and your mouth.”

Sam smiled and wriggled backwards. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Here, sling this leg of yours over my shoulder. That’s right. I want a little space, I do, and I don’t want to touch those burns by accident.”

He looked up to catch a shaky little smile. “They’re all right, Sam.”

“Ay, but you’re my treasure, so I like to be careful of you.”

“You like bossing me, you mean.”

“Hush now,” Sam said, nuzzling the plump thigh nestled against his cheek. “I’ll bite if you don’t mind yourself. Oh, your skin’s so soft here. Mmm. So cuddly.” Frodo’s prick jerked impatiently in his hand, making him laugh. “All right, little master, do you want cuddling too? Do you want petting, do you? Oh, you do,” he crooned, adoring the feeling of having kindled such eagerness. He stroked slowly at first, and then a bit faster, trying to see how Frodo liked things; going by his wrigglings and writhings, it seemed as if Frodo liked just about anything. “You’re not much different from me down here, do you know? Don’t know what I was expecting. You smell real good, Mr Frodo. Like a nice salty butter,” he said, sniffing appreciatively. He lipped at the loose foreskin, pushing it back to suckle at the smooth red head and work up some spit. He didn’t go too deep, not liking to choke by accident and perhaps frighten Frodo, although judging by the way Frodo was yelling his name, it didn’t seem likely that he would shy off at this stage. Sam rubbed his hand quickly up and down, sneaking in the little twist he always enjoyed on his own time. It looked like that twist had a new admirer, with Frodo setting up such a groaning it made Sam grin around his mouthful and lose first his rhythm and then his suction. “Do you want to come now, my dear? Don’t hold back on your Sam’s account,” he said, stroking harder. “Come in my mouth if you want. I think I’d rather like that. You shouldn’t spurt it all over your belly, that’s for certain - I don’t want you getting any salt on your hurts. Oh, here it comes…” Sam ducked back down to catch everything in his mouth as Frodo came with a yelp, his legs clenching hard around Sam’s head.

“Oh Sam. Oh Sam, my dear Sam.” Sam swiped at his mouth and eased up from between those two quivery thighs to find Frodo staring at him with the most peculiar expression on his face, like he was joyful and sad and utterly befuddled, all at once. Sam decided he must have done a good job to win a look like that.

“What’s the matter, Mr Frodo? I can’t tell if you want to laugh or cry.”

“I can’t tell either, my dearest, practical Sam. Only you would swallow just to keep salt out of my wounds.”

Sam felt a blush coming on. “Well, as to that, I rather think I would’ve done it anyways. You don’t taste half bad.”

A laugh it was to be. “You relieve me. In more ways than one. Come up here, would you, Sam, and share a pillow with me? I think I want to look at your face for a very long time.”

“Well, all right. But I really ought to check on your soup.” That little snip earned him a swift kick to his bottom, and he giggled as he scooted up the bed to lie beside Frodo. “Not to worry, Mr Frodo. I’m sure my love talk will improve in time. Or maybe I should be more like you and just squawk a lot.”

“I do not squawk, Samwise. And as for you, it doesn’t seem to me as if you’ve been put to the test yet. If I could just…”

“You leave my flies alone, Mr Frodo, and mind your poor hands.”

“Drat these bandages! Let me free, would you, Sam? I should like to touch you, more than anything.”

“Not a chance.”

“Then perhaps I might…”

“No!” Sam put an arm over Frodo before he could act on that thought. “Like I could trust that mouth of yours near my jewels anyhow. I’ve seen what you do to your fingernails. You can just save your appetite for your soup, all right?”

“All right, Sam,” Frodo said, looking properly contrite. “But you’re…”

“Hard as bone, ay. Bless you, Mr Frodo, it hasn’t escaped my notice.” Satisfied that Frodo wasn’t going to try and sit up again, Sam let go and started fumbling with his breeches. “I can take care of myself. But you’d best watch carefully, now, ’cause I’ll be expecting a good toss from you once your hands are on the mend.”

“You have my full attention, believe me, Sam.”

“Thought I might. Eyes like saucers. Ah, here we are.” Sam pulled out his hard prick and started pulling at it in relief. “Something tells me this won’t take long at all. Unh. Goodness. You watching, Mr Frodo?”

“Oh, I’m watching all right. You’re better than fireworks.”

“Nothing’s…better than…fireworks,” Sam panted. “Never done this…unh…in front of anyone before. It’s a…ah! A funny feeling.” His head rolled from side to side as he squeezed and twisted at himself, and then Frodo reached out gingerly with the back of his hand to hold their damp foreheads together, forcing Sam to pause a moment. “Makes me shy, knowing you can see,” he whispered against Frodo’s mouth, “But all hot and bothery too. Unh. Mmm. I think I…unh…I like it.” He was getting very close now, and rummaged between their bodies for something to catch the mess on. “Where’s that wet hankie got to? Oh, here it is under your bottom. Here shift a little, that’s right. Got it. Goodness, have you been laying on this soggy thing all this time?” He could just hear a soft murmur of ‘dear, sensible Sam’ through the dull roaring in his ears before he came with a grunt of satisfaction into the damp cloth. “Phew! I wonder what May’ll think when she does your laundry this week?”

Frodo laughed a little uneasily. “I really don’t like to imagine.”

“Ah well, she wouldn’t say anything, no matter what she might be thinking.” Sam dropped the handkerchief over the edge of the bed, fastened his flies, and rolled over to snuggle against Frodo’s side. “That was easy now, wasn’t it? And so are we. Easy, I mean. With each other. Aren’t we?” He leant over Frodo, propping his chin on his palm as he watched that dear, funny face. “Look at that, your furrow’s all smoothed out,” he said softly, stroking Frodo’s brow with a gentle thumb.

“Is it, Sam? It must be because you make everything seem so simple and wonderful. You’re just like sunshine, you know. I don’t see how I’m supposed to be unhappy when you’re with me. If only I could have you by my side always.” He turned his head away, forcing Sam’s fingertips along that tell-tale line of misery across his cheek. “But Sam, this can’t be. We’d be the talk of Hobbiton - of half the Shire. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt like that.”

“And the furrow’s back, quick as that,” Sam said, sighing to himself. “Why do you have to be so changeable? How am I supposed to keep up with you? You say you don’t want to see me hurt. Well, it hurts me every time you look at me with your eyes so full of wanting, getting my hopes fired up until you turn it off like it was never there. You play more games than any lass I know. You know there’s nothing I’d like more than to move in here with you and take care of you always.” He took Frodo’s chin, making sure he couldn’t look away again. “You’re first with me, you know. I can’t help it. Wouldn’t want to. So why won’t you just let us be? Why do you have to get your heart in knots so?” He tightened his grip “Maybe you’re just lonesome. Maybe any fellow’d do for you. How would I know? It’s not like you ever say anything.”

Frodo looked gratifyingly puzzled by the very notion. “Of course it’s you, Sam. You’ve been my golden lad since the day I met you, with your bright eyes and your grubby hands. Do you really think I can see anyone else?”

“I know it’s like that for me.” Sam held him still for a kiss. “Sometimes I get a little shock and think, ‘he’s all alone bar me and it’s up to me now to keep him safe and happy’ and I want to, I so want to, if you’d just let me. But maybe I should’ve just kept my hands to myself and kept my fool trap shut - and my fool heart too! Maybe I should’ve just pretended like I didn’t notice anything.”

“Oh no, Sam, I’m the only fool here. I hope you will always be honest with me. As honest as you can bear. There’s no-one as dear to me as you.” Sam had to cut him off with a few more kisses for those words, but somehow Frodo managed to free himself long enough to whisper, “Shall we try then, Sam, and see what we can be? Will you stay with me?”

“Well now, sir, I’d like to stay,” Sam said with a grin. “But the kitchen calls. No, don’t you try and tempt me with your wares. Shameless, you are. But it’ll just have to keep until we’ve had a bite to eat. And I don’t mean hobbit.” He gave Frodo a quick peck on the nose, then swung himself off the bed. “Don’t look so forlorn, Mr Frodo. I’ll be back before you know it, with brisket to put inside your belly rather than all over it. Now, let’s get you tucked under these covers where you can’t distract me so much. I’m going to be your hands today.”


End file.
